Walls
by Spooks21
Summary: Vicious, in the morning, doing katas and Not Thinking. Really. No thinking.


**Walls**

Vicious was rarely present in his Mars apartment. 

Once he had caught one of the syndicate's cleaning personnel with his hand on the door. That hand and the rest of the employee had left in a zipped black bag. It was bad enough that the syndicate elders had tried bugging his ships, especially after he'd started to gain his own followers. The rest of the apartment was obviously wired, and he could care less, but that room… 

The door was rigged with an alarm system, one that would slice an intruder to small, cauterized pieces. Less messy that way. Not that mess wasn't fun in its own right. But if it had time to sit, well, that left stains, which meant even more cleaning personnel. 

Early morning, before dawn. Vicious had risen from a dream, eyes open within a heartbeat of a dream's end. It had been--he forgot what it had been. That always happened. Never mind. 

Morning. Katas. 

Rumpled, draw-string sweat pants. 

No shoes. 

No shirt. 

No hair brushing. 

A morsel of food for the bird, then into the room. 

No windows, so no sunlight. 

Sometimes he used candles, sometimes he kept it pitch black. Today, he wanted to see. Small, naked bulb hanging from the ceiling, bright enough to see the walls. 

That dream. Nightmare. 

Vicious picked up and unsheathed his katana. He hated practicing with anything less than the deadly blade. 

First movement, slow, stretching, and precise. Power. 

The east side of the room. 

Small picture, tacked at eye level. The smell of sand and scorpions in Vicious's nostrils, even now. He'd betrayed the man in the mug shot. Put him away, locked up tight till the threat he'd presented could be nullified. It was a spite, to prove that it could be done. 

And it had been. 

Second movement, faster. More fluid. 

West side of the room. 

A shelf there, a gun that he didn't use anymore. A gift from a "friend." It was why Vicious didn't use guns anymore if he could possibly help it. The katana, much better. Cleaner. Could feel the ache of death with the blade. The slice of flesh. 

Ironic, that the giver used a gun. So impersonal. But then, the giver also fought with bare hands. Perhaps there was balance in that. Perhaps it was the perfect weapon for the giver. 

Not that Vicious cared. It didn't matter. 

The giver had never been a friend, no matter what they'd believed at the time. So wrong. He'd known better before, on that damned moon. He'd locked away that other threat behind iron bars with the gift of a tune named after the woman on the north wall. 

He'd been the giver for others, Vicious should have known someone would give something to him. 

One hand presents, the other takes away. Slight of hand and distraction. How very accurate. 

The west wall had betrayed Vicious. Had proved to him that his own betrayals were right, and the way things should be. 

Damn dreams. 

Third movement. More fluid, more graceful. He'd known this one the longest. 

Katana reflecting the overhead light, Vicious paused, mid-movement. The bar of luminance cut the throat of the woman in the picture. 

Sleeping. So she couldn't see him as he practiced. So she couldn't see him. 

He knew where she was. Had known her path for nearly three years. 

She was a threat to the syndicate if she talked, so they kept their leashes on her wherever she went. That was the excuse, the reason. 

She knew, of course, that she was being watched. How could she not? 

If it wasn't for the giver, she wouldn't have left. That's what Vicious tells himself with a balanced, quick slice of the katana. He knows it's a lie. He couldn't blame her, she should have never been with him in the first place. But it didn't stop their betrayal from solidifying the ice in his veins. 

He'd known better, he'd known better all his life. Even Titan couldn't change that, he hadn't let it. They'd only taken away any doubt he had. They'd stolen it. 

And he was glad. It had made him who he was today. The serpent. Poisonous and cold blooded. 

Fast, striking movement, a slash and a spin, then stillness. He looked down the edge of the blade, sharp against the mirrored image of the gun. 

A twist of his body and the reflection was gone. He didn't need it. 

Three small objects, filling the room. 

They'd taught him everything he'd already known. 


End file.
